


Stolen Moments

by chaos_monkey



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Accidental Voyeurism, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, eventually, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24117262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaos_monkey/pseuds/chaos_monkey
Summary: Geralt really doesn't mean to do it, but somehow repeatedly winds up seeing Jaskier… taking care of himself.He really doesn't mean to enjoy it so much, either.Or: five times Geralt sees Jaskier get off and one time he gets to feel it, too.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 201
Kudos: 909
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020, Finished Fics I Love





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know this particular 5+1 has probably been done a million times before, but who doesn't want more of Jaskier jerkin' it, really...

Jaskier sighed happily, sinking down a little lower in the hot water as the door finally thumped shut behind Geralt. He’d been starting to think the witcher was _never_ going to let him get some much-needed private time. 

He could always go look for another interested party instead… but it had been a long day, and a long trip before today, and he was too sleepy and relaxed now to entertain the notion of actually climbing out of the tub and putting clothes on again. And it just felt so good to be properly _clean,_ he _really_ didn’t feel like getting sweaty all over again. 

No, this would do just fine. It had been far, far too long since he’d had a chance to indulge in this properly anyway, instead making do with occasional rushed, stolen moments to himself before Geralt grumped about taking too long to break camp in the mornings. Those were almost more a necessity than a pleasure, and Jaskier had been looking forward to this bath for more than one reason all bloody day. 

The tub, though large, was unfortunately somewhat shallower than he preferred, and he knew he wouldn’t have quite as much time as he’d like before the water started to cool as a result— although the low walls had certainly afforded him quite the view of Geralt taking his turn bathing first, something Jaskier was firmly _not_ thinking about at all right now, because one didn’t think about one’s friends in that manner, at least not too often; and anyway the witcher was clearly not interested in him _that_ way at all. Unfortunately. 

Pushing that thought away and simply letting his mind go blank, Jaskier closed his eyes and let his chin drop, trailing a hand lazily over his chest, the light touch of his own fingertips setting a little flush of goosebumps rising on his skin despite the warmth of the water. Biting his bottom lip with a quiet hum, his hips shifting a little and his cock already starting to thicken with anticipation, Jaskier ran his hand down his stomach, the coarse, curled hair tickling and scratching pleasantly at his palm as he went. He brought his other hand up to his chest at the same time, thumbing lightly at one nipple with another sigh, teasing himself a little by skirting his fingers around the base of his shaft. Gently grinding the heel of his palm against his belly just above his cock, he ran his fingers over his balls for a moment or two, loose and low in the heat of the water; before thrusting up just a little with a quiet groan and hooking his thumb over the base of his cock. 

Still toying lazily at his nipple, Jaskier let his eyes drift open just enough to watch himself, the view only slightly distorted by the ripples from his own movement as he ran his open hand up the length his now-stiff cock, tightening his stomach just to feel the press of his own hard heat up into his palm. He circled his palm over the head with a little shiver of pleasure before finally closing his hand properly around himself and giving a slow, deliberate stroke downwards from tip to base, hips twitching up into his own grip again. 

Jaskier kept stroking, but slowly, his thoughts beginning to wander idly as he worked himself higher, past memories and future fantasies of long nights and pleasant company both mingling easily into one another in his mind; and if large, broad-shouldered men featured rather prominently, well, he’d had more than a few of those in the past after all. The water sloshed around him as he shifted, spreading his knees wider and bracing his feet better to thrust up into his hand with languid rolls of his hips. His breathing was already starting to come faster as pent-up need coiled tighter behind his cock; and he slid his other hand down, half-cupping his balls again with a huffed moan. Pressing one finger over the sensitive area just under them, he slipped it lower, rubbing lightly at the rim of his hole and pumping his cock a little harder. 

He couldn’t go too fast in the water like this without straying into unpleasant chafing territory, but he made up for it by squeezing harder, raising his cock up from his belly until the taut, flushed head was poking up out of the water above his fist. Eyes fixed on himself so he could watch it when his quickly nearing release erupted, his breath coming in short, sharp pants as the pressure built and tightened in his gut, Jaskier pressed the tip of his middle finger inside himself with a whimpered moan, still massaging that spot under his balls while he fisted his cock just a little faster— he was _almost there—_

The door banged open at the other end of the room and Geralt walked in. “Bard, where did—” 

He cut off abruptly and pulled up short as Jaskier let out a strangled yelp, his imminent orgasm hitting even as he sat bolt upright again, splashing water over the sides of the wooden tub and onto the floor— 

And then Geralt just _stood there_ staring at him while he came, amber eyes wide with surprise and unfairly perfect lips slightly parted, and Jaskier flushed so hard he thought his hair might catch fire, trying desperately not to gasp or shudder too openly, his cock throbbing in his still-tight grip and pulsing spurts of come into the water between his shaking legs. With his head spinning from a confusing mix of pleasure and mortification, his cheeks flaming and his heart racing, Jaskier, for once, had absolutely _no_ idea what to say. He did open his mouth with the vague idea that he should snap something to the effect of Geralt needing to learn how _knocking_ worked, but closed it again almost immediately at the realization that he wasn’t entirely sure what might actually come _out_ of his mouth if he spoke just then. Not with Geralt’s gaze fixed on him like that and the aftershocks of orgasm still shivering through his body. 

Not with the unexpectedly deep yearning that had sprung up in his chest, so strong it was painful, for Geralt to keep walking, come closer, and just _touch_ him. Kiss him. Shove his cock in his mouth. _Anything,_ really, would have been absolutely fine with Jaskier just then; and he knew suddenly, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, that he wouldn’t be able to pretend to himself any longer that he wasn’t absolutely, completely, utterly smitten with the expressionless stone of a man standing silently just inside the doorway. The one who had never shown even a hint of interest towards him in return. 

It felt like that awkward, frozen, hopeful moment stretched forever, but he knew it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds at the very most before Geralt turned around and left again without saying a word, the door closing behind him with a quiet thump. Slumping down in the tub again, Jaskier closed his eyes and wiped a wet hand over his face with a shaky groan. 

“Fuck.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Attempting to keep an updates-Sundays schedule!)

“Fucking bard.” 

Roach didn’t answer and Geralt looked around irritably. Everything was packed up, the fire was out, and he was itching to get moving. But Jaskier had disappeared into the trees while Geralt’s back was turned with a cheery ‘ _Won’t be a minute!’_ and still hadn’t come back yet. He really needed to stop wandering so far out of camp just to take a piss, too. This particular stretch of forest wasn’t as dangerous as some, but it was still a bad habit. 

“He’s wasting time. Again.” 

Roach eyed him reproachfully. 

“Don’t give me that look,” Geralt muttered, looking away to glare into the trees. 

Roach whickered and pawed at the dirt with a little shake of her head. 

“Because he’s occasionally useful to have around. Sometimes. Maybe. You know, I should just leave him here. Teach him a lesson.” 

Roach snorted and Geralt sighed. 

“Fine. I’ll go look for him. Make sure he hasn’t managed to break his neck tripping over a fucking rock.” 

Slipping into the trees in the general direction Jaskier had taken and easily— _too_ easily— locating and following the trail of bent branches and crushed undergrowth, Geralt glowered and wondered for the umpteenth time why the bard kept travelling with him. There was dedication to a craft and then there was idiocy. Jaskier really wasn’t very good at roughing it, didn’t particularly _like_ it, and wandered blithely into danger on an irritatingly regular basis. Usually while chattering loudly, to boot. 

A quiet voice in the back of Geralt’s mind pointed out that he really didn’t have to keep travelling with Jaskier either, and he ignored it, angling towards the tell-tale flash of eye-wateringly bright cloth he’d just spotted through the trees. 

For a small mercy, the bard hadn’t wandered far this time, at least. Geralt was just opening his mouth to snap Jaskier’s name and get his attention, when a gap in the brush showed him the bard leaning heavily forward against a tree, unmoving; his head drooping so Geralt couldn’t see his face. 

_Fuck._

What in the hell kind of trouble had Jaskier managed to get himself into _here?_

Tensing, his hand immediately going to the hilt of his sword, Geralt strode forward silently, senses straining for any signs of danger. He couldn’t hear anything except Jaskier’s laboured breathing and wind rustling through leaves; didn’t smell blood on the air or the scent of any creatures save those that belonged there. Nothing but the damp, earthy scent of the forest, and Jaskier himself. 

He didn’t _smell_ sick or injured either; in fact, he almost smelled— 

… _Oh._

Geralt pulled up short, his stomach giving a little flip of something he tried not to think too hard about. Jaskier was not unmoving after all; in fact, his other arm that had been blocked from Geralt’s view until just now was actually moving quite fast. 

Until it abruptly _stopped_ moving, and Geralt was treated to a perfectly clear view of Jaskier coming all over the tree he was leaning on with a shudder and a bitten-off grunt. 

Geralt’s cock twitched with interest in his trousers at the sound of Jaskier’s slightly ragged breathing; at the sight of the bard’s hand working slowly over his stiff, flushed cock a few more times while the last pulses of come dripped down over his fingers and onto the ground at his boots. When Jaskier pushed himself upright with a little groan and raised that hand to his own lips, Geralt spun around and went back the way he came before Jaskier could look up and _see_ him just standing there. Watching. 

Again. 

The faint tendril of guilt that twisted through his stomach did absolutely nothing to kill Geralt’s already half-filled erection as he stalked back to their empty camp. He knew he should have turned around and walked away the moment he realized what Jaskier was doing. But he hadn’t. He’d stayed. And he’d _watched._ Just like he’d done at the inn weeks before. 

Geralt tried to push the images away as he stomped into the clearing, but they crowded right back in again anyway. He hadn’t been able to see the bard’s face this time, but he could imagine it perfectly after walking in on Jaskier in the bath that night; his mind filling in the details for him unbidden, of Jaskier’s mouth as he panted for breath, his damp hair falling into his face and lust-darkened blue eyes open wide above flushed red cheeks. 

Knowing exactly what was happening beneath the surface of the water, Geralt had frozen with those eyes on him, with the enthralling scent of Jaskier’s arousal thick in the air. A sudden, brief hope had flickered through him that maybe Jaskier would _want_ him to stay, that the bard would grin and laugh and make some flippant invitation and Geralt could haul him out of the tub and spend the next few hours fucking him into the mattress until neither of them could see straight anymore. 

The look of horrified shock that had bloomed on Jaskier’s face instead as he tried desperately to hide behind the low wall of the wooden tub had made it clear that wasn’t ever going to happen. Which, really, shouldn’t have come as any kind of surprise. But somehow it had hurt a little anyway, and Geralt had spent the next several days feeling slightly, irritatingly ashamed of himself. As well as deeply annoyed that he’d even allowed that hope to spring up in the first place. Just because Jaskier didn’t particularly care what, exactly, the recipients of his attention had between their legs, didn’t mean the bard had any reason to be interested in him. Jaskier’s lovers were, unlike Geralt, unfailingly pretty, young— well, compared to Geralt, at least— and most importantly… human. 

Normal people. Not mutated monster-killers. 

Geralt hadn’t felt even the slightest desire to be human again in _decades;_ but somehow, around Jaskier, he couldn’t help wondering if the bard would feel differently about him if he was. 

Unsettled by that faint hint of unaccustomed longing for _something else,_ vaguely disgusted with himself for watching again and without Jaskier even knowing this time, irrationally irritated with _Jaskier_ and feeling even more guilty for it, Geralt ground his teeth and swung up onto Roach’s back. He waited just long enough to hear Jaskier crunch his way into the clearing before he nudged the horse into a walk, resolutely not looking at the bard trailing along behind and pretending he couldn’t still smell the bright scent of Jaskier’s arousal curling through the air on the soft breeze whispering up the road with them. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Where are you going, bard?” 

The sound of footsteps stopped abruptly and Geralt opened his eyes with a sigh to see Jaskier frozen in place a few paces out from the fire. 

“Um. Nowhere. Just, well—” 

“I told you not to leave camp after dark. Not here.” 

“I wasn’t going _far,_ I just need to—” 

“It’s not safe. Just… do what you need to do there.” Jaskier glared at him, fidgeting, and Geralt could see his cheeks reddening even in the dim glow from the embers smouldering quietly in the firepit. It made him look even younger than usual. 

Rolling onto his back with a grunt, Geralt closed his eyes again, ignoring the sounds of muted rustles and Jaskier muttering to himself before finally doing his business against a tree and crawling back into his bedroll. Why the bard was always so painfully shy about something so mundane, Geralt would never understand. 

There was blessed silence in the tiny clearing for a few moments and Geralt was just starting to drift off when Jaskier huffed and rolled over. 

And then shuffled and rolled over again with a sigh. 

And then did that thing where he chewed on his bottom lip with little sucking noises. 

And then shuffled in his bedroll again with a quiet grunt and _another_ sigh. 

A muscle in Geralt’s jaw twitched. At the very next peep from Jaskier, he was going to snap at the bard to settle the _fuck_ down and let him sleep— but it seemed Jaskier had finally quieted on his own. 

Minutes passed and stretched with nothing but the sounds of the forest at night, and Geralt slowly relaxed again, consciously pushing the residual irritation away. He was nearly asleep for the third time when yet another rustle and sigh from Jaskier’s bedroll snapped him instantly back to full consciousness, eyes flying open again to stare up at the starry sky with his jaw clenched and teeth gritted. But just before he could sit up and growl at the bard to shut the hell up and just go to sleep already, Geralt realized that soft rustle was rhythmic and still going and he stopped breathing for a moment. 

_Fuck._

Jaskier’s breath hitched in another soft sigh, and Geralt’s stomach tightened with something hot and shivery. 

Lying still, he tried to just ignore it and go to sleep. But he couldn’t _not_ hear the tell-tale, repetitive movement of Jaskier’s arm and the sound of skin sliding over skin. He couldn’t _not_ smell the scent of Jaskier’s arousal on the still air, faint but unmistakable, and growing stronger by the second. The bard clearly thought Geralt was already asleep; and Geralt knew, really, it shouldn’t matter whether he heard or not anyway. He’d never been bothered by this sort of thing in the past. Needs were needs. But… somehow this was different, and Geralt’s body was once again taking a far greater interest in the matter than he wanted it to. 

Jaskier’s breathing was coming faster already, catching on the barest hint of a moan at the end of every soft, unsteady exhale, the sounds quiet enough to be all but inaudible to a human. But not to Geralt. His already heightened senses were focused so tightly it felt like they were vibrating with stimulation; his rapidly filling erection twitching in response to every tiny rustle of movement as Jaskier touched himself, every careful little shift the bard made in his bedroll and every faint moan he stifled deep in his throat. 

Half wanting Jaskier to know exactly what this was _doing_ to him yet hardly daring to breathe in case the bard realized he was awake and stopped, Geralt just lay there, frozen in guilty silence, his cock getting steadily thicker and heavier against his thigh as he listened. All he could think about was wanting to _see_ it all again instead of just hearing it; wanting to watch Jaskier’s hand working over his stiff cock and his face twisting in pleasure when he came. 

He knew he shouldn’t want to see it, and he knew he shouldn’t quietly turn his head to look, and he did both of those things anyway. 

Jaskier was flat on his back with his knees bent up and his head tilted back, shirt rucked halfway up his stomach. He was holding his bedroll up out of the way with one hand while he pumped himself with the other, and his face was lit up enough by the muted glow of the embers for Geralt to easily see his expression, eyes shut tight above flushed cheeks and mouth open as he panted _almost_ silently for breath. The movement of his arm was speeding up fast, already quick and choppy, and Geralt felt a sharp stab of disappointment that even his eyes couldn’t actually make out the bard’s hand on his cock in the shadows of the bedroll. 

A scant moment later, Jaskier rolled onto his side facing away from the fire and Geralt’s bedroll and all Geralt could see then was the bard’s back stiffen with a jerk as he let out a quiet, quickly bitten-off grunt. His arm pumped spastically a couple more times, and then he slumped onto his back again and tugged his bedroll back up with a faint, contented hum. 

Jaskier’s breathing soon slowed into the calm, steady rhythm of sleep, but Geralt couldn’t have said how much longer he lay there, listening, wide awake while the bard slept. Twitchy and horny as fuck, he stared up at the night sky with the tantalizing, thick scent of Jaskier’s fresh come filling the air; unable to stop imagining how it would feel to have his own hand wrapped around Jaskier’s shaft and his cock buried in Jaskier’s tight, slick heat while they both came. How it would feel to fall asleep with the bard wrapped snugly in his arms after, both of them sweaty, sated and spent. 

When he finally couldn’t take it anymore, Geralt slipped quietly out of his own bedroll and onto his knees beside it. It took no more than a minute or so of jerkily fisting his throbbing cock hard and fast— while trying and failing miserably at not picturing it disappearing between a certain pair of inviting red lips instead— before he spilled onto the ground with a silent shudder, biting his own lip so hard he tasted blood. 


	4. Chapter 4

Edging a little further upwind, Geralt glanced over at Jaskier walking beside him. The bard was uncharacteristically silent, trudging along under the baking hot sun and looking about as despondent as Geralt had ever seen him. 

He was also uncharacteristically filthy, coated almost head to toe in dried swamp muck that was some of the worst Geralt had ever smelled. And he’d smelt some bloody awful swamps in his lifetime. Jaskier had at least managed to scrape the very worst of it off after falling in, and the rest was mostly flaking away off his clothes in little clouds of fine dust while he walked, but the bard still fucking _stank._

“You fucking stink, bard,” Geralt said after a moment. 

“Oh, yes, _thank_ you, witcher. I hadn’t noticed,” Jaskier retorted; then lapsed back into sullen silence. 

Geralt eyed him again as they walked, frowning. Irritating as the constant chatter could get, this gloomy quiet from the bard instead was almost worse. It was… unsettling. 

He had originally been planning to push on until nightfall, by which time they would be just reaching the next town along this route, but was starting to think it might just be better to stop early, given the circumstances. He knew this area well, it was about as safe as it got anywhere on the Continent, and there was a good clean river running through the woods a little ways off the road. 

Geralt grunted and made up his mind. The heat was getting even to him at this point, Jaskier did look truly miserable, and that stench was enough to make them conspicuous and easy to follow, unlikely though it was that anyone or anything _would_ be tracking them at the moment. 

“This way,” he said gruffly, turning off the road and leading Roach into the trees. 

Jaskier followed without a word of question or complaint, and that alone was enough to make Geralt decide he’d made the right call. 

Once he’d found a good spot to set up camp, close enough to the river that the air wasn’t completely still and stifling, but still under the cool shade of the thick forest canopy, Geralt gave Roach some water and started unloading her saddlebags and their bedrolls. 

“River’s that way,” he said as he worked, jerking his head towards the sound of running water. “Go get cleaned up. Should be safe enough here, but don’t wander off.” 

There was a brief pause, a short hesitation where Geralt thought Jaskier was going to say something. But he didn’t, and Geralt listened to the sound of his footsteps heading off in the indicated direction, finding himself vaguely irritated without being entirely sure _why._ It was a feeling he’d been having more and more around the bard lately, and he didn’t know what the fuck to do about it. Usually he knew exactly how Jaskier was being irritating. He could probably write entire fucking _books_ about the innumerable and varied ways in which Jaskier managed to be irritating, if he wanted to. 

He had more important things to worry about for the moment, though. Pushing that little mystery aside, Geralt focused his attention on making a sweep of the surrounding area before preparing the campsite. He kept half an ear on the faint noises from the river while he did, of Jaskier washing both himself and his clothes from the sounds of it. Cleaning up must have helped the bard’s mood at least, because the splashing was interspersed with the familiar sound of Jaskier humming to himself before too long. 

It wasn’t until he was nearly through brushing Roach down that Geralt realized he couldn’t hear Jaskier anymore, and in fact hadn’t heard a thing from the river for a little while now. Pausing, he cocked his head and listened, but there was no sound of Jaskier at all, neither in the water nor picking his way noisily back through the woods. 

Geralt was fairly certain he’d have noticed if the bard had managed to drown himself, at least. 

“Probably napping instead of coming back to help,” he muttered. 

Engrossed in munching happily at her nosebag, Roach ignored him. Finishing up his work on her coat a little faster, Geralt gathered up their waterskins and finally headed down to the river as well. A swim would definitely be welcome in this heat. And since it looked like they were going to stay the night here before moving on again in the morning, he had the time. 

When he approached the edge of the treeline, Jaskier still wasn’t anywhere to be seen, either in the water or on the rocky shore, and Geralt felt a brief spike of anxiety before he caught a flash of movement a short ways upstream. A few steps further, and he had a better angle to see the water-smoothed top of a flat, weathered rock. It sloped gently down in Geralt’s direction and was currently occupied by a very naked bard, stretched out in the sun with his clothes spread out next to him to dry. 

Geralt froze in place, staring. Jaskier’s eyes were closed, but he was definitely _not_ napping. He was, instead, touching himself and had been for a little while now from the looks of it; his bottom lip caught between his teeth, his skin flushed with the heat of arousal rather than just the heat of the sun, his cock full and stiff in his curled fingers. His legs were splayed wide open while he pumped his hand up and down in long, smooth strokes; and even as Geralt watched, Jaskier lazily slid his other hand across his chest and then down the flat plane of his stomach, slipping it between his legs to cup his balls with a low moan that Geralt heard as clearly as if it the bard had breathed it into his ear. 

_Fuck._

Not _again._ What were the fucking chances he would just keep stumbling onto Jaskier in this middle of this? 

Geralt might actually have huffed an incredulous laugh if the dizzying flare of lust that flashed through him at the sight hadn’t temporarily frozen his breath in his lungs. He swallowed hard instead, that quiet longing coiling again in the pit of his stomach alongside harsh, burning desire. He hesitated for the space of a heartbeat, _wanting—_ and through sheer force of will, made himself look away from the sun-drenched rock and its occupant, turning to slip back towards camp and let Jaskier have his moment in private. He had self-control enough for that, no matter how much he would have liked to watch— 

“Mmh… Gera- _ahh—_ ” 

— but at the soft, garbled sound from the river’s edge, Geralt stopped dead in his tracks again. 

His heart thudding in his chest and his already throbbing erection straining harder still against the warm leather of his trousers, he looked back at Jaskier just in time to see… _everything._ The bard’s mouth had fallen open in a sharp, wordless exhale, his brow furrowed and his eyes clenched tightly shut above brightly flushed cheeks; and his slim, bare hips bucked up once as he came up his own front, the spurts of come glistening in the bright sunlight as they spattered over his stomach and chest.

Watching Jaskier pant and twitch and moan through his orgasm, hand still tight around his stiff, pulsing cock, Geralt wanted nothing more than to climb on top of him, fuck Jaskier’s come-slick fist until he spent all over the bard as well, and then lick Jaskier clean again until the only thing left behind was their mingled scents soaked into his skin along with the sun itself. Only half-aware of his fists clenched tightly enough to make his knuckles ache, Geralt actually took two or three steps forward before he got a hold of himself again and stumbled back into the trees instead, already fumbling his painfully tight trousers open one-handed with a growl. 

Just as he tossed the waterskins aside and took himself in hand with a stifled groan, he heard the splash of Jaskier going back in the water. It took only a few strokes for Geralt to bring himself off like that, listening to Jaskier bathing; imagining how Jaskier must look while he did— sun-drenched skin still flushed and cock still half hard, humming to himself with a contented smile as he washed, little rivulets of water coursing down his naked body and sparkling in the light of a sky as bright and blue as his eyes— 

Imagining, wanting; and wishing he could believe he really _had_ heard his own name on the bard’s lips just before Jaskier came. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a whole lot of trouble getting this chapter right, so a big thank you goes to my same hat bastard friend Luredin for the beta read and some ideas-bouncing, as well as for pointing out the worst of my run-on sentence offences (any remaining infractions are my own) <3

Geralt woke up with his hand already on his cock, to an unfamiliar room and a strangely familiar scent of lust interlaced with his own. 

The momentary confusion vanished when he turned his head to see Jaskier lying unclothed and uncovered in the other bed, clearly illuminated by bright moonlight slanting in through the open window. It was the middle of the night. They were at an inn, sharing a tiny room scarcely larger than a closet. 

And the sharply sweet scent of Jaskier’s arousal was heavy on the warm air because the bard was bringing himself off again, his legs splayed wide open with one knee leaning up against the wall over the rumpled heap of his sheet and the other down on the mattress towards Geralt. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed and his bottom lip caught tight between his teeth; and he was panting softly as he touched himself, the sound quiet but nowhere near quiet enough for Geralt not to hear it now that he was awake. 

Geralt nearly groaned out loud. Whether it was more from frustration or just from being so fucking turned on, he wasn’t sure, his teeth grinding together hard enough to hurt even as his hand tightened involuntarily around his throbbing erection under his own thin sheet. He was beginning to think he might _actually_ go mad if this kept happening, the memory of stumbling onto Jaskier down by the river only yesterday afternoon still fresh in his mind. 

This time was somehow simultaneously better and worse than all the others. Geralt really could see  _ everything,  _ see it and hear it and smell it, his senses nearly overwhelmed in the cramped space. The room was so small, Jaskier’s bed so close to his own, that Geralt could almost have reached out and touched him. And he  _ wanted  _ to, so badly it was a physical ache in his chest. He wanted to run his fingertips through the light sheen of sweat glistening on Jaskier’s skin in the moonlight; he wanted to go over there and  _ taste  _ him, taste Jaskier’s moans on his tongue before taking that stiff, pulsing heat deep into his throat until his nose was buried in the thatch of dark curls under Jaskier’s fist. He wanted to feel the bard’s fingers clutching in his hair and those bare hips bucking under his hands, and he wanted to drink down every last pulse of heat and scent when Jaskier inevitably spilled into his mouth.

He managed to stay put in his own bed, barely, but he couldn’t stop his hand from beginning to stroke up and down his aching cock in time with Jaskier’s movements. He could almost believe they were actually sharing something, like this— and against his better judgement, Geralt gave in and _let_ himself believe it, pumping his cock right along with Jaskier, imagining it was his hand on Jaskier and Jaskier’s on him. 

The almost sinuous movements of Jaskier’s narrow hips were utterly mesmerizing as the bard fucked up into his own grip in long, slow thrusts. His other hand was already at his chest, thumbing at his nipple; and even as Geralt watched, Jaskier gave it a tweak, pinching the stiffened little peak hard. His mouth fell open with a sharp huff of breath and the smooth rhythm of his hips stuttered as they strained upwards, his ass coming up off the mattress and his hand visibly tightening around the very base of his stiff, flushed cock. 

Geralt did the same without even thinking about it, his hips pressing up, his hand stilling and tightening around his shaft. He didn’t continue until Jaskier did, his heartbeat thudding faster in his chest and the tension in his gut coiling rapidly higher as Jaskier’s soft, panting breaths grew louder and quicker. When Jaskier’s hand left his chest to slide down between his open legs instead, Geralt’s breath caught, his cock jumping in his tight grip. Jaskier twisted slightly, dropping his shoulder, obviously slipping a finger inside himself—

And Geralt nearly came on the spot when his name left Jaskier’s lips in a quiet moan that was nothing more than a shaped whisper of air. 

His eyes wide and his pulse thumping in his ears, Geralt froze as a dizzying wash of vertigo left him light-headed and unable to breathe. Jaskier’s bare chest was heaving and he was stroking himself faster, hips tilted up instead of thrusting while he fingered himself at the same time, and a litany of barely audible pleas interspersed with breathy whimpers was falling from his lips. 

“ _Geralt… fuck, please, Geralt, I want… fuck me, more… there, gods yes… like that, please, fuck me, harder, yes— Geralt— Geralt—_ ” 

And then Jaskier was coming, with _Geralt’s_ name on his lips, his back arching off the mattress and his cock spurting come over his stomach while he shuddered on his bed. Geralt’s hand jerked spastically, once, twice; and he was coming too, _hard,_ pure shock the only thing stopping him from gasping out Jaskier’s name in return. 

Jaskier didn’t seem to notice a thing, relaxing down onto the thin mattress with a long, quiet sigh while Geralt twitched silently through the rest of his own orgasm, the last pulses of come dripping hot onto his skin under his sheet and Jaskier’s voice still echoing in his ears. 

_harder, yes— Geralt—_

Trying to surreptitiously catch his breath, Geralt was wondering if he ought to just fucking _say_ something at this point, when Jaskier hummed quietly, rolled over the face the wall, and— to Geralt’s annoyance— promptly fell asleep. 

Silence fell over the tiny room, save for the soft rhythm of Jaskier’s breathing. Geralt was left to the dubious company of his own thoughts, frowning up at the shadowed rafters while his cock softened in his hand and his seed cooled on his belly unnoticed. Though it was true neither of them had the coin at the moment to visit a brothel, Jaskier always had an easy enough time finding someone to bed on his looks and charm alone. But rather than do that tonight, he was apparently content to stay here and get off on thinking about… about Geralt instead. 

Shifting his frown over to the bard in question, who was now sprawled on his stomach and snoring quietly with one bare foot hanging off the side of the bed, Geralt couldn’t help thinking about the other times he’d seen Jaskier bringing himself off recently, wondering if Jaskier had been thinking about him then, too. And wondering whether the bard actually wanted him, or if he liked only the fantasy of it, some imagined thrill of bedding a Witcher. He found himself wishing he _had_ caught Jaskier’s attention before the bard had fallen asleep, awkward as it probably would have been. At least that way he would have been able to get some answers instead of lying there in the dark, vaguely confused and less vaguely annoyed and still fucking _tired._

He was about to go wake Jaskier up again— it would bloody well serve him right for interrupting Geralt’s sleep in the middle of the night like that to begin with— but then the fresh memory of Jaskier panting his name flashed through Geralt’s mind and sent an unnervingly powerful flush of confused desire and hope and uncertainty twisting through his stomach. 

It took a moment for Geralt to place the sensation before realizing he was… nervous. He was actually _nervous,_ and it had been a very, very long time since Geralt had been nervous about anything at all. 

He didn’t like it. 

He also realized a heartbeat later that he had absolutely no idea what, exactly, he would even say to Jaskier if he talked to him right now; and that the thing he was nervous about was the thought that he might fuck this up before he had quite figured out what ‘this’ was. Or even what he wanted it to be. 

With a sigh, Geralt finally turned his attention to the sticky mess drying on his stomach and hand, wiping the worst of it off with a corner of his sheet. After a brief hesitation, he turned onto his side facing Jaskier’s slumbering form and just watched him thoughtfully, mind still turning over tonight’s… revelations with something uncomfortably close to anxiety. 

The bard’s familiar, steady breathing was calming, however, and Geralt felt the furrow in his brow slowly smoothing away. It wasn’t all that long, in the end, before he drifted off again with a faint smile on his lips and the sound of Jaskier breathing his name still repeating quietly in the back of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday update - real life has kicked my ass this week, so I will likely miss Sunday's scheduled update 😭 But I will 100% be back with replies to all your lovely, _lovely_ comments, and of course the final chapter, just as soon as things get back on track again 💙💙💙💙


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long delay on this +1 wrap-up chapter! I hope it proves worth the wait. Thank you all so much for the lovely kudos and comments and support along the way ^.^ <3

Jaskier sighed quietly, staring up at the sky. 

He couldn’t sleep. Again. 

It wasn’t the fact that the long days and short nights meant it still wasn’t dark out, yet, despite being quite late. It wasn’t even the heat, the reason he was lying flat on his back on _top_ of his bedroll and clad only in his thin undershorts— though that certainly wasn’t helping matters. 

What it was, was that damnable _witcher._

Or, more accurately, it was Jaskier’s own inability to stop _thinking_ about that damnable witcher. It seemed he spent most of his time lately trying not to be constantly distracted by Geralt; by his hands and his ass, by the sound of his voice and the shape of his mouth when he spoke. By the way he listened without seeming to or the way he cocked his head slightly whenever one of those rare, soft smiles touched his lips. 

By the endearing way he sometimes quietly told Roach stories when he was keeping watch in the night and thought Jaskier was already asleep, that prickly, cranky, supposedly fearsome exterior he kept up around him like a second set of armour temporarily falling away to expose the soft-hearted interior he thought Jaskier didn’t see in him every day anyway. 

Jaskier had absolutely been failing miserably at not being distracted by all of those things. Ever since that fateful evening in the bath when he had found himself spilling out in front of Geralt, quaking through waves of pleasure with those amber eyes fixed on him, he’d been plagued by fantasies of how it would feel to come with Geralt’s hands and tongue and mouth on him as _well._

He’d entertained the occasional, titillating notion about Geralt before that night, of course— how could he not, spending so much time in the company of the broad-shouldered, darkly brooding, unfairly gorgeous _bastard_ of a witcher— but he had been able to ignore those desires readily enough with other distractions. Now, though… now Jaskier found himself strangely uninterested in the sort of company he would normally seek out to help ease his baser needs in a mutually pleasing manner. Which in turn left him even more at the mercy of his libido, the end result being he turned to the solace of his own hands and vivid imagination even more frequently than before. 

Which had, admittedly, been a fairly frequent occurrence to begin with. Jaskier never had been one to shun life’s simple pleasures. 

He kept finding himself hoping quietly in the back of his mind, though, that Geralt might catch him at it again and… _do something_ about it this time; but in reality he knew the most likely outcome would be either nothing at all, or worse, he’d make Geralt uncomfortable and the witcher would just stop traveling with him. For all of Geralt’s dour grumbling about being ‘saddled’ with a bard who didn’t know the difference between a kikimore and a tree stump, Jaskier knew full well that there was nothing whatsoever he could do about it if Geralt decided to just take off without him one day and disappear. 

In fact, Jaskier had, for the entire first month or so that they traveled together, fully expected Geralt to do exactly that, sooner or later. He’d been slightly, pleasantly surprised every time he woke up in the morning to find himself _not_ abandoned in the woods. A year later, and he still wasn’t _entirely_ sure why Geralt had let him stick around in the first place, but he had a strong suspicion that even a grumpy witcher liked a little more company than a horse and the occasional dead monster, or chopped-off piece thereof; particularly company that didn’t see him as some kind of horrible monster himself. Not that Geralt would ever admit as much, of course. 

Whatever the reason, Jaskier had become less and less worried about it as time passed, having learnt fairly quickly to recognize the signs that Geralt did actually appreciate his presence. But now his… infatuation, yes, that was a safe word; now his little infatuation had stirred up all those old doubts and left him worried that if he bothered Geralt too much, that would be it. And it really wasn’t helping that Geralt had been just generally _short_ with him, and even more withdrawn than usual, lately. 

Jaskier sighed and closed his eyes, trying to clear his head and go to sleep, but images of _Geralt_ invaded his mind again, thoughts of pale, scarred skin and kiss-reddened lips and heavy panting breaths quickly setting his cock filling and his heart beating faster in his chest. Biting his lip with a small sigh, Jaskier finally gave up trying to fight it, instead simply letting his arousal build and his imagination run where it liked. Clearly, he wasn’t going to get _any_ bloody sleep tonight if he didn’t work this out of his system first. 

He had just slipped a hand into his undershorts to start palming his erection when he heard Geralt turn over. He froze, heart thumping harder in his chest, and chanced a sideways peek across the campsite— to find Geralt not only awake but looking straight at him. 

Flushing, Jaskier yanked his hand back up as though he’d been burned. 

“Sorry. I thought you were… sorry,” he mumbled, staring up at the sky again with his cheeks flaming, trying to surreptitiously shift enough to hide the obvious tent in his shorts. All the fantasies he’d spun out of _wanting_ Geralt to catch him like this suddenly seemed far-fetched. Foolish, even disrespectful. 

“I heard you last night,” Geralt said quietly. “At the inn.” 

Jaskier’s stomach dropped and he winced, mentally kicking himself. After another one of _those dreams_ about Geralt he’d woken up in the middle of the night, achingly hard, groggy and tired but so wound up he’d been unable to get back to sleep without… taking care of himself, first. He had been so sure he’d stayed quiet enough, but must have woken the witcher up anyway— that blasted _hearing_ of his— and now Geralt wouldn’t want to travel with him anymore; not now that he knew about Jaskier’s filthy little fantasies about him, had even been forced to _listen_ to it because Jaskier couldn’t keep his mouth shut even when he knew he should. In that tiny room, he should have _known_ he couldn’t be quiet enough, but he’d let himself get carried away nonetheless. No wonder Geralt had been even more taciturn than usual all day. 

He was probably lucky he hadn’t just woken up that morning to find Geralt and Roach already gone. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again, flushing harder with shame. “I- I didn’t mean for you to hear… It won’t happen again,” Jaskier finished lamely. 

“I liked it.” 

“I— you what?” Blinking in shock, Jaskier looked over to see Geralt still watching him, amber eyes glinting almost gold in the near-dark. 

“I liked it,” Geralt repeated. “It’s not the first time I’ve s- heard you since I… interrupted you in the bath. But… the things you said last night, while you were…” 

He trailed off, gesturing vaguely towards Jaskier. A sharp thrill of excitement and nerves twisted through Jaskier’s gut. Geralt actually sounded _nervous,_ of all things. 

“Yes?” Jaskier asked, turning onto his side to mirror Geralt and inwardly cursing the gathering shadows that didn’t let him see much of the witcher beyond his general outline and his eyes. _Now_ it got properly fucking dark out. Typical. 

There was a long silence, the only sounds those of night insects and rustling leaves and Roach shifting on her feet. 

Then, “Did you mean them?” Geralt finally asked. 

Jaskier swallowed hard, remembering how he’d been softly panting Geralt’s name, and more— _like that, please, fuck me, harder, yes— Geralt—_

“Every word.” 

There was another pause, during which Jaskier may have forgotten to breathe; and then Geralt said quietly, “You don’t have to stop. Or, we could— if you wanted to…” 

“Is that an invitation, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, his voice hoarse, and he was _just_ able make out Geralt’s nod in the low light. 

Jaskier rolled onto his feet so fast he nearly face-planted into the dirt, ignoring the rocks and twigs underfoot as he crossed the campsite in two quick strides. Geralt watched him approach, only rolling onto his back when Jaskier dropped to his knees straddling the witcher’s hips. As Jaskier leaned down onto all fours, Geralt’s hand slid up his ribs to his back, pulling him close— he just barely had time to register that Geralt was hard, too, cock thick and full and pressing against his own rapidly reviving erection— 

And then Geralt’s lips were on his, other arm wrapping around Jaskier’s waist and his fingers threading loosely through Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier tentatively parted Geralt’s lips with his tongue, and the desire in his core lurched dizzyingly higher when Geralt _moaned_ into his mouth, tongue meeting his in a soft, wet, hesitant lick. 

Jaskier kissed him harder with an answering hum of delight, licking into the wet heat of his mouth, catching Geralt’s bottom lip briefly between his teeth and rolling his hips down to grind himself against the witcher. He was already panting, cock already throbbing with need as Geralt’s hips jerked up in response and that stiff rod of heat rubbed harder still against his thickened cock through their scant layers of clothing. 

“ _Geralt—_ ” Jaskier managed to get out, any more words he might have had lost when Geralt’s mouth covered his again, the witcher surging up hungrily against him. He reached down between them at the same time Geralt did, both of them blindly fumbling one another’s undershorts down and out the way. A soft gasp burst from Jaskier’s throat and Geralt inhaled a sharp breath through his nose as they freed each other almost simultaneously and were suddenly touching, hard heat pulsing under sensitive velvet-soft skin. 

Geralt’s fingers closed around him— around them _both,_ Jaskier realized with a groan, the witcher’s hand big enough to take them both in a firm grip. He could hardly breathe for the flood of sensation as he rocked back and forth on top of Geralt, savouring the soft _whimpers_ trapped in the back of Geralt’s throat as they kissed; Geralt’s breath hot on his lips, tongue moving slick on his own, Geralt’s cock hard and hot against his as they both rutted haphazardly into the witcher’s hand. 

Normally Jaskier prided himself on his ability to hold back long enough to coax every last ounce of pleasure he could from his partners until they were a quivering wreck of bliss— but tonight, like this, with Geralt, _he_ was that quivering wreck, able to do nothing but ride the mounting spirals of desire higher and higher, his imminent climax approaching almost embarrassingly quickly. The friction between his cock and Geralt’s was already slicked with precome, Geralt’s hand tightening as the witcher pumped them harder, and Jaskier was just breaking away from the kiss to gasp a warning when _Geralt_ jerked under him, the witcher’s hips bucking and the strokes of his fist stuttering as his mouth fell open in a strangled cry. 

Eyes widening and breath seizing in his chest, Jaskier watched him come, drinking in the shadowed sight of Geralt’s head thrown back, mouth slack and face screwed up in pleasure. He could even _feel_ it, Geralt’s release a thick, hot, pulsing pressure against the sensitive head of his own cock; and it took only a few desperate thrusts into the witcher’s grip before Jaskier followed suit, shuddering as he spilled out into Geralt’s fist, his cock throbbing and twitching against Geralt’s with every spurt of come that spattered up the witcher’s front. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier managed in a half gasp, half laugh. He rested his forehead down on Geralt’s, still panting and twitching from the aftershocks, suddenly aware that they were both positively _coated_ in sweat. And come. Well, Geralt was anyway, and the thought sent more giddy laughter welling up in Jaskier’s chest as he tried to catch his breath again. 

“Hmmm,” was all Geralt answered, but Jaskier could hear that soft smile in his voice as clear as day. 

Geralt was still holding them both in a loosened grip, and Jaskier groaned, shivering as Geralt’s thumb ran lightly over his cockhead and they shifted minutely against one another, everything slippery wet with both their come. He was _almost_ too sensitive… but not quite. Certainly nowhere near enough for him to want it to stop. The relaxed, intimate feeling of Geralt’s touch as they both slowly softened again was even better than it had been in his fantasies. 

“I guess maybe I’m not sorry for being too loud last night after all,” Jaskier finally murmured, grinning. 

Geralt huffed a silent laugh under him. “You weren’t too loud.” 

“Well. Obviously not, with this outcome. But if it was loud enough to wake you up, then I must have—” Geralt was shaking his head, and Jaskier cut himself off, pushing himself up a little higher, squinting at Geralt in the dark to try and make out the witcher’s expression. 

It didn’t work. 

“Well, what woke you up, then?” Jaskier finally asked. 

There was a pause, and Jaskier got the sense that Geralt was studying _his_ face. He probably was, too, with his witchery eyesight, and Jaskier blushed as he realized he was pouting. 

“I could smell it,” Geralt rumbled after a moment, moving his sticky hand to the small of Jaskier’s sweat-slick back. “Your arousal.” 

Jaskier stared. 

At not much, in the dark, but he stared at where Geralt’s eyes should be anyway. “Wait— you can _smell_ when I… you can smell it when I’m _horny?_ ” 

“Yes. And when you’ve just come.” 

Jaskier blushed harder. All those times he’d… 

_Damnable, blasted witcher._ “For fuck’s sake, Geralt! If you knew all this time, why in the hells didn’t you _say_ something?” he spluttered. 

Geralt shifted under him in what Jaskier thought was a shrug. “I did,” he said, voice tinged with a sort of… sheepish amusement. 

“I meant _before_ tonight, and you know it,” Jaskier said, swatting Geralt’s shoulder. “Melitele knows I only wind up hot and bothered every time you so much as _look_ at me lately.” 

The witcher was silent long enough that Jaskier had just resigned himself to not getting an answer, when Geralt finally spoke again, his tone more serious. Vulnerable, even; _open_ in a way Jaskier recognized but rarely heard. 

“I didn’t think you would ever actually want… me. Or more than just… well…” 

Geralt trailed off, body going tense, his hand tightening on Jaskier’s hip, and something tightened painfully and then loosened in Jaskier’s chest even as his stomach swooped up into his throat. 

“Geralt, _you_ are an absolute idiot and I love you,” Jaskier said hoarsely before he could stop himself, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s lips so Geralt wouldn’t think he expected an answer, suddenly terrified he’d gone too far when Geralt stayed frozen beneath him— 

And then Geralt _melted_ into it with a hitched breath, arms wrapping around Jaskier so tightly he thought his ribs might have actually creaked, and that in itself was answer enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [chaos-monkeyy](https://chaos-monkeyy.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, come say hi and/or yell with me about these two!


End file.
